


with its heartache, with its sorrow, winter wind sings and it cries

by anna_bolinas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, POV Female Character, Ramsay is his own warning, Theon ADWD from Jeyne's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_bolinas/pseuds/anna_bolinas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In any case," the queen went on, "Lord Eddard's younger daughter is with Lord Bolton, and will be wed to his son Ramsay as soon as Moat Cailin has fallen." <em>So long as the girl played her role well enough to cement their claim to Winterfell, neither of the Boltons would much care that she was actually some steward's whelp tricked up by Littlefinger.</em> "If the north must have a Stark, we'll give them one." // theon adwd from jeyne poole's perspective</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song "don't so sadness" (spring awakening)  
> first fanfic on the archive

At first, when the man entered her room, she thought she was meant to service him.

She kicked off the blankets and dropped into a curtsy. As she did, she tried to be observant. _Look at him, look at all of him, look inside of him, and if you find any secrets, bring them to me,_ the wizened man who kept the books had told her. _I’ll bring them to Lord Baelish, and perhaps you’ll get a treat, if they’re good._

_He is a knight,_ she noted. His cloak hung limp from his shoulders in the airless room, white with a dog leaping over a river picked out in lapis lazuli on it. She hadn’t seen a knight since…since…she tensed to keep from shaking. Those three days in the tower with Sansa, the smell of blood trapped in her nostrils, knowing, somehow knowing, that her father was dead, the Northmen were dead, and each second that passed was like a punch to her stomach, and the doughy knight who came had brought her to the lord with mocking green eyes and a thin smile. _That’s gone now,_ she told herself. _Those men don’t mean anything to you anymore. Tansy, your name is Tansy, from Pisswater Bend. What would she care for Northmen?_

“Jeyne Poole?” The man’s voice was limp as his cloak. She flinched at the sound of her name. _Tell no one,_ Lord Baelish had instructed her. She had to be Tansy all the time, inside and out, with a man or without, with the other whores or by herself, she had to be Tansy all the time.

The man stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and shook her. “Jeyne Poole?”

“Yes, yes, my name is Jeyne Poole.” She barely felt the tears, only the ache of trying to keep herself from shaking, bone-deep. Half-wild, half-sluggish thoughts tripped through her brain. Perhaps the man was coming to rescue her, to bring her home. Or perhaps he was coming to kill her, exterminate the last of Lord Stark’s party from the capital. He’d bash her head against the wall, squeeze her eyes like lemons, run through her with his sword— _stop, stop!_ —and worst of all, would she even find it that painful?

“Stop crying. Pick up your things and come with me,” the knight ordered. He dropped her arm and left in a whirl of white and blue, the only breeze in the room. When he was gone, she closed her eyes, unclenched for just a moment, as her mind quickened to double time at his words.

_Freedom._ The word tasted as sweet and sour as a lemon cake. _Freedom._ But what did that mean? Home—or death? Or a return to the Red Keep? Had Sansa asked for her, pleaded for her return? Joffrey was dead, she had heard the bells ring like they had for King Robert; had Sansa asked for her comfort? _My friend. How sweet it would be to see her again._ She thought of Sansa smiling, hugging her, rubbing the scars on her back, the two of them crying together, wrapped in bed like sisters. She almost laughed. But then—it didn’t really matter what the reasoning was, did it? She would have to go regardless, to the North, to the South, to the death. And then she felt so small and cold, she almost wanted to wrap herself in the blankets and forget the man had ever come.

But she couldn’t. So she didn’t.

She began to pack her meager things. She only owned two other dresses and one other pair of shoes, all in the same drab cotton and leather. Her beautiful furs, her Northern clothes, had been sold and burned and buried, depending on the old book keeper’s mood. She had saved only one piece of home from the wreckage, a slightly singed brooch from her father. It was a simple brooch, a chip of a sapphire on a flat white disk, but she cherished it more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. For a moment, she debated pinning it on her dress. Usually she hid it, held it in her hand, sometimes hiked her skirts up and drew a thin red line down her hip just to feel something. But she had never worn it. _He called me Jeyne though. So I can be a Poole again._

She slid the pin through the fabric over her heart and left the room. _Freedom._

Some of the other girls were standing outside their doors, their eyes on the knight at the end of the hallway. Alys, the girl in the next room, pulled on Jeyne’s sleeve as she passed. Alys had long red hair that always made her think of Sansa. _Sansa would never be found in a place like this._

“Are you going with him?” Alys nodded her head towards the knight.

“Yes.”

“Be careful.” Alys dropped a soft kiss on Jeyne’s forehead, one of those small, careless gestures of affection all the girls exchanged. The kiss was worse than a slap. Jeyne tried to smile, but her heart ached and throbbed. She hated it here, hated every brick, every slat of wood, every stitch in her pillow, every sunbeam that pierced through her window and mocked her—but the girls were good and kind, and she would rather stay loving them and hating everything else than go along with the blank figure at the end of the hallway. All in white, like parchment, but what would be written? _I have no choice though,_ she reminded herself, and with a sad smile, she left Alys behind.

How different it was, to be going out rather than in. She let herself remember only the briefest details of her coming. The man with the mocking eyes, Lord Baelish, had made her feel like a fat pig ready for the slaughter. _Lady Sansa’s little friend,_ he said with eyes that undressed her in every flick. Trailing Lord Baelish through endless narrow streets, stumbling, scraping her knees, staying at a poky little house on a street that smelled of shit and death, losing her clothes, her hair, only saving the little brooch by chance— _Your name is Jeyne, correct? A pretty name, to be sure, but you will need a new one._ All courtesy, all smiles, until they reached the door. Then beatings, whippings, more hair being sheared, practicing with the girls, repeating her name until she half-thought she had always been Tansy, that Jeyne Poole was just a fever dream, curdled and yellow…

She shook her head. _It’s gone, it’s all gone now._ Tansy and the girls felt more and more like the fever dream with every passing step. She was going to be Jeyne Poole again, daughter of Vayon Poole, friend of Sansa Stark, girl of the North. Names, she’d found, were sometimes like stepping into costumes; this name, though, _her name_ was like a warm, worn cloak that she could never forget. Like her father’s brooch, pinned on her collar, glimmering faintly but still there.

Through corridor after corridor lined with dirty bricks and chipped graffiti she followed the knight. She studied him as they walked, for lack of anything better to look at it. His hair was a rusty red color, so different from the rich coppery red of Sansa’s hair. Two sagging eyes drooped over a thick nose, neither of which matched his tiny, puckered mouth. She noticed a glint of gold at his throat—a clasp for his cloak. It was too small for her to see, but she could almost make out two wings extending in flight. Who had a bird as their sigil? _Sansa would have known._ Instinctually, her hand went to her father’s brooch. Not anything fierce, not a lion or a stag or a wolf, and certainly not a sigil they taught little highborn girls in drafty castle towers, just a simple blue circle, but it made her feel more protected than any wild animal.

“In here,” the knight said gruffly, opening a beaten wooden door. The door looked out of place for the building, a sumptuous and soaring pale structure with a mosaic of a dragon stretched across the back. Jeyne did not remember it from her journey into the brothel. She tried to take it all in, the dragon’s wings spread in flight, its head thrown back to the sky, but the knight pushed her inside. Darkness, the smell of lavender and sweat, the quiet murmur of conversation just close enough to be heard but just distant enough to be meaningless, engulfed her. Jeyne swallowed hard. _If I die in here, I’ll fly far away like the dragon._

“Lady Jeyne.” That voice, dry and tart as wine, connected inextricably to mint green eyes and thin smiles. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

Two candles flared into life on her left. She turned to see Lord Baelish at a dark desk that drank the light like a thirsty dog. He rose and swept out his hands as if to hug her. She stepped back, hands on her father’s brooch, remembering too much, tensing again— _No, no, no_ —the smell of satin and perfume and dry lips on hers.

Lord Baelish laughed as he brought his hands down. “No, I suppose there’s been enough touching for you. And there will be more touching in store when you meet your husband.”

_Husband?_ Wildly, stupidly, her first thought was of Lord Beric Dondarrion, the dashing lord she had thought herself in love with during Lord Stark’s Tourney. She had dreamt of him for days in his purple cloak slashed with lightning, dreamt of that cloak wrapped around her shoulders as Lord Beric bent to kiss her. But Sansa had told her he was promised to someone else, and he had disappeared chasing the Mountain and anyway, if he were alive, what would he want with her, particularly—her scars ached—particularly now?

“Lord Bolton is most excited to meet you.”

Bolton. Her stomach clenched and filled with ice. The Boltons flayed people and wore their flesh like winter cloaks. Lord Roose Bolton leeched himself every day. He had a bastard who kept dogs—that was all anyone said before their voices trailed off. _Freedom._ She might have laughed if she hadn’t been so close to tears.

“Of course, a man of such high—stature has to have an equally high wife. Your father was a steward, was he not?”

“Yes.” The smell of blood and tears drying on her face and Sansa’s arms wrapped around her.

“Bound to House Stark?”

“Yes.” Winterfell, her home.

Lord Baelish gestured to the knight behind her. A swirl of fur and the choking smell of warm dust and she was cloaked in gray wool with a pin around her throat. The new pin lay heavy, heavier than her father’s. She touched it, fearful of what it might be— _a flayed man, in ruby red._

“Perfect.” Lord Baelish smiled, though he never looked truly happy. “Although, here—,” He reached and slid her father’s brooch out from under the new one. “Well we shan’t be needing this anymore, sweetling.” His fingers, as dry as the rest of him, curled around the sapphire.

“But it’s my father’s,” she blurted. _Stupid, stupid._ Lord Petyr’s eyes narrowed, his smile curdled like sour milk. She tensed, waiting for him to tear the cloak from her shoulders, strip her, march her back to the brothel, call for a whip.

His smile flattened again, smooth as cream. “Yes, and it’ll be safe in my possession, sweetling.” With a whisper, the brooch slid off. Lord Baelish twirled it between his fingers before pocketing it. “Besides, you have a new one now. There’s many a man out in Pisswater’s Bend who would kill for such a brooch.”

Her hands fluttered back to her throat. Anxious, she pulled it away so she could see it. Carved from pearl with twin opal eyes and a row of fierce alabaster teeth. _A wolf._ She closed her eyes. Winterfell and home, yes—but as a Stark, not herself. _Freedom._ Laughter and tears fought for dominance. Would she ever be Jeyne again, or was she doomed to only snatch minutes as herself, and spend every other day, month, year as others?

Lord Baelish bowed, as did the knight, although he did not look pleased. “Lady Arya Stark, we are at your service.” When Lord Petyr stood, his eyes twinkled, happy for once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay between chapters. I've been busy with vacation and college prep. but please enjoy!

The courtyard was full of men. Men in Lannister crimson and armor inlaid with gold; men in the pink of House Bolton over worn leather jerkins and leggings; men-at-arms adjusting busted silver gauntlets and dented shields with the paint barely clinging on; Kingsguard men in creamy white cloaks and shimmering helms. And on the edges of it all, herself, in her too-big cloak pinned tight against her throat, astride a horse just as thin and gray. _The lovely Arya Stark,_ she thought ruefully.

Lord Baelish had told her that Ser Jaime’s escort from Harrenhal would be taking her to the North. “The wedding is supposed to be held at Barrowton, I’m told, but then surely you will relocate to Winterfell, as the heiress of the castle. A man called Steelshanks Walton will see you safely there, and bedded and wedded.” At that, Lord Baelish had laughed, as if he had just told a hilarious joke. She had never seen him so happy. And all the smiles reached his eyes. When he smiled like that, he looked like a dog served a particularly choice cut of meat.

_I’ll never have to see his smile again,_ she had thought, exulting. It was a small comfort now, a joke as flat as wine left out too long. Every step she took brought her closer to marriage, and Lord Baelish’s smiles were not as scary as a marriage to a Bolton. 

Barrowton— _that_ thought frightened her. Sitting there on her horse, watching the men laugh and curse and spit, she tried again to remember what she knew of Barrowton. _It has a grave, a big one, for the king of the giants. House Dustin rules it—or House Ryswell. The lord is…the lord is…_ At this, every time, she could not remember. As for why Barrowton had been selected for the wedding, she had given up trying to decipher, as she had given up trying to decipher the reasoning behind the wedding. “The heiress of the castle” Lord Baelish had called her, but what about Robb or little Bran or even baby Rickon? What about Sansa? What about the real Arya? _Maybe they fled. Maybe they’re hiding somewhere, like the exiled Targaryens. Maybe they’ll return and kill all the Boltons and I won’t have to marry anyone, not a bastard, not a Bolton, not anyone._ That was foolish, though. They were dead, they were dead and gone, she just didn’t know how it had come about. Not that it made much difference. _Dead is dead is dead._

Being back in the North, though—that might still be nice, with or without a Bolton. In the North, she’d be far from Lord Baelish, far from the wizened brothel keeper, far from the men who slunk into her room smelling of beer and piss, far from the whip. And the North was home, no matter her name. _Winterfell_ was her home as much as Arya Stark’s. The Burned Tower that looked like a half melted candle stuck into the snow; the Great Keep’s walls pulsing with warmth like a huge granite heart; the godswood, watched over by the great weirwood and its solemn face; the glass gardens that sparkled in the sunlight. _At least they will not make me stay at the Dreadfort._ She remembered sitting with Sansa sometimes and listening to Old Nan’s stories. Nestled together under blankets, the candles burning low, the two would lean in to Old Nan’s paper thin voice. “The Boltons were old rivals to the Starks throughout the Age of Heroes. Even after the Conqueror came, and Torrhen Stark bent the knee, the Boltons still troubled this family. Time and again, a Bolton lord would rise in rebellion against his Stark master, and the North would run red with blood. Have you ever wondered why the Bolton sigil is a flayed man?” Even though they knew what was coming, they always shook their heads, breathless. “They have a room, deep in the bowels of the Dreadfort. There, they skinned their enemies, piece by piece. Sometimes they started with the fingers, peeling the skin until you beg them to cut the finger off and end your misery. Sometimes they started with the face; that was best for a quick death. But always, they took all the skin off, and made a cloak out of their enemies. There’s many a Stark who ended his life as a winter cloak for some Bolton man. At least, they did once.” Then Old Nan would sit back and continue with her knitting, while Sansa and Jeyne barely breathed under their own wool cloak, which would often, by some trick of the light, look too close to human skin.

_Cloaks. What if my maiden cloak—what if the cloaks they’re all wearing now—_

A skinny groom with a wispy straw-colored beard and, _thank the gods_ , a Lannister cloak approached to lead her out. He barely looked at her, barely acknowledged her, as he took up the reins. Part of her wanted to be cold, imperious, stiff, the way Lady Catelyn sometimes was. Part of her wanted to weep and scream and fling herself onto the ground to be trampled by the horses. The biggest part of her Sansa back, and her father alive and well. She wanted her name. _Freedom._

Jeyne Poole stiffened her back and clasped the reins. The groom led her to the man Steelshanks, standing beside a man all in white—white armor, white cloak, white gloves, white boots. For a moment, she did not recognize him, with his bald head shiny as his armor and his wiry beard. But then— _my gods._

“Ser Jaime.” The fear tinted her voice to a high, thin, white sound. Why was he here? Lord Baelish had said the escort was originally meant for Ser Jaime, but he hadn’t warned her of this, the queen’s own brother, who would surely know her in an instant. _He was at Winterfell. He has seen the real Arya. Was he supposed to know?_ She swallowed hard. “You are kind to see me off.”

Ser Jaime looked at her, surprised. “You know me, then?”

She chewed on her lip. “You may not recall, my lord, as I was littler then…” _And I’m too old now, too old, they all know, they must._ “But I had the honor to meet you at Winterfell when King Robert came to visit my father Lord Eddard.” _Vayon Poole. Remember his name._ She could no longer meet the Kingslayer’s eyes, sharp as a dagger and green as grass. She looked away. “I’m Arya Stark.” The words felt strange on her tongue. _I hardly ever called Arya that._

The Kingslayer squinted at her. She tensed, half-hoping, half-fearing that he would shout, “But this is an imposter!” Lord Petyr would beat her senseless, tear open her scars and make fresh ones, possibly even strike her head from her shoulders, but she would almost rather be bleeding at the brothel than bleeding next to Ramsay Bolton. Or lose her head rather than her maidenhead. A prayer formed in her throat, but then the Kingslayer said, “I understand you’re to be married.”

She clenched, to keep herself from slumping. _Why wouldn’t he know? He’s a Kingsguard, and the queen's brother._ “I am to wed Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay. He used to be a Snow, but His Grace has made him a Bolton. They say he’s very brave. I am so happy.”

The Kingslayer looked almost sad. The sides of his mouth twitched down for a moment, and he looked at her with pity. She almost slid from her seat and begged for his protection, before she remembered how he had attacked Lord Stark and his men in the streets, how he had slain Jory Cassel and then fled like a coward from the king’s justice. She turned away.

“I wish you joy, my lady,” he said before looking to Steelshanks. “You have the coin you were promised?”

“Aye, and we’ve shared it out. You have my thanks. A Lannister always pays his debts,” the man said with a grin.

“Always.” Ser Jaime glanced at her again. “Good speed,” he said. _If he hadn’t attacked Lord Stark…if he hadn’t fled the city to make war on the Riverlands…if he hadn’t started the whole bloody business, where would I be?_ She blinked back tears. Arya wouldn’t cry, not in front of these men. _No, she would fight them, but I can’t be her._

One of the men raised a banner—the arms of King Tommen, a stag in an endless dance with a lion on a golden background. The banner snapped once, twice, then lay limp. The Bolton men surrounded her, unfamiliar faces with matted beards and musty furs. She gripped the reins hard, her knuckles blanching, her arms shaking with the force. Her nails bit into her palms, and it was all she could do not to weep.

The column moved out of the Red Keep, snaking its way towards the Dragon Gate. Steelshanks skirted Flea Bottom, instead taking the long stone road from the castle to the Great Sept and the Guildhall. As she passed the Sept, Jeyne squinted towards the marble steps. Lord Stark had been executed there, his head lopped off with his own greatsword. _My father._ But that wasn’t right, her own father had died…he had died…She didn’t know how he died, didn’t even know if it was true that he had died. Just like the Starks. No use in dreaming of Essosi exile. _He’s as dead as Eddard Stark,_ she thought glumly. The whole of the North might as well have been beheaded on Baelor’s steps with him.

They directed their steps towards the Dragon’s Gate, which led to the kingsroad. Rhaenys’ Hill rose above them, as Visenya’s Hill fell at their backs. Only a few people were out to watch them go by. Some merchants, a gaggle of dirty children, a knot of women in silks leaning against a sunburnt house. They all watched the column with faint interest. A few of the women looked hungrier than the others, and their eyes roved over her cloak as if they would like nothing more than to tear it off her. They were welcome to the bloody thing, of course. They were welcome to anything, they were welcome to rip her body apart and feed it to the dirty little children if that’s what suited them. Gods, how morbid she had become.

The man Steelshanks wheeled back to come in beside her. She edged her horse away slightly. “Lady Arya,” he said with a nod of his head, a sardonic smile touching his lips. “I was the captain of Lord Bolton’s guard at Harrenhal. I hope to do you as good service as I have done him.”

“Thank you, ser.” She kept her eyes ahead, fearful that if she looked at him, if she acknowledged his presence, it would all become too real. Like a wagon set on a hill, she would have no choice but to careen down until she landed in a heap on the bed in Barrowton.

They approached the gate. Four tiny golden dragons capered around the walls. Above it all wheeled a great golden dragon, wings splayed open. It looked like the dragon on the wall at Lord Baelish’s establishment. In that instance, she saw the dragon as spread in flight; this one looked as if it had just been taken down by a crossbow bolt. Jeyne fought the urge to shut her eyes as they passed beneath the Gate.

“I see you are nervous,” Steelshanks said once they emerged into the light. The kingsroad spilled out, a dusty length of parchment, ahead of them. _Freedom._ “Learning of your engagement so suddenly, and on the heels of so many tragedies, must be overwhelming. But if you treat Lord Bolton well, he will return the favor. Lord Snow as well.” He chuckled, as if this were all a great joke to him. She had not missed the meaning behind his words though. _So many tragedies. One for every Stark._

She could not bear to ask him about that, though, could not bear to hear him tell her about their deaths in that greasy voice, in that joking way as if it were all a tourney masque. Instead, she seized on what she did not understand. Lord Snow. “I thought that…I thought that he had been legitimized,” she whispered. She could not say his name, could not bear to feel the words in her mouth.

Steelshanks laughed, a harsh sound, like metal on metal. “Yes, indeed. I would never call him Lord Snow where he could hear me. But a piece of paper can’t make a bastard a lord, any more than it could make me one.”

Jeyne thought of Jon Snow, the Stark bastard who used to play at swords with Robb and muss Arya’s hair. “So he is not lordly?”

“He certainly likes to lord his position over others.” Steelshanks paused, and she chanced a glance at the man. He was all in leather—brown leather for his shirt and pants, pink leather for his cloak and boots. She flinched and turned away. _This is happening, this is happening._

“Listen,” he continued, “as I said—if you do as he tells you and give him the respect he thinks he deserves, he will not harm you.”

_That’s not what you said, you said he would do the same. So he will not harm me, am I supposed to be pleased by that reassurance? He will not take care of me either._ But she could only bite her lip and nod. “I am…merely grateful that he will marry me. Considering my family’s position.”

Steelshanks laughed again. “Yes, considering your position indeed. Stewards, correct?”

Jeyne jerked so violently that she yanked the reins. Her mare tossed her hand and whinnied, annoyed. “Stewards?” she stuttered. She could not tell if she was fearful or excited. For a moment, she twisted in her saddle; Rhaenys’ Hill was not far, she could still see the tip of it poking up over the top of the walls. _I can’t go back._ She turned back to Steelshanks. “N-no, I meant, because—my father was a traitor, my whole family—,”

He laughed again. “You don’t have to lie to me, my lady. We all know the real Arya Stark is dead in some ditch along Pisswater Bend. The girl could never have made it out of the city alive. But may I add that you do not draw too much attention to your true status? Lord Snow can be rather touchy on the subject. Now, excuse me, I must make sure these fools aren’t going to lead us towards any outlaws.” Steelshanks kicked his spurs into the horse and galloped ahead to the front of the column, leaving Jeyne half-stupefied, clutching to her reins as a dying man clutches to a rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant dialogue comes from Jaime IX, ASOS.  
> next chapter: a trip through the Riverlands, a visit to Harrenhal, a bad dream, and some new information (for Jeyne).


End file.
